better with the lights turned on
by marblesharp
Summary: Five times Haymitch was afraid of monsters and one time he wasn't.


AN: For Starvation's August prompt, lullaby. I use character names from my Haymitch story, The Callers From The Coffin, but it should be clear who's who. Title from _Shelter_ by Birdy. I own nothing. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**better with the lights turned on**

**_five times haymitch was afraid of monsters and one time he wasn't._  
**

* * *

outcome.

He feels like a damn baby, all the lights switched on, flinching at every sound, every flicker. A forty-two-year-old baby with a bottle in one fist and a knife in the other.

The shadows in the night are different than the ones that scared him witless as a kid. They aren't monsters, not really.

They're people he knew. All of them, he killed or couldn't save.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't used to them by now, but then, he'd also be lying if he said he isn't as afraid as he was before, when they were just beasts from tales meant to frighten children.

Oh, Haymitch knows of such monsters. They've lunged out of their storybooks right at him before. Didn't matter who they were or what they did so long as he was not sober or conscious enough to endure it - a lesson he learned later in life when the monsters got scarier and _oh so_ realer. He longs for the days untainted by blood he's spilt, when he could ignore the things that frightened him without alcohol.

Now that the sun peeks from the hills, illuminating the world in dandelion yellow, he gives into the blissful pull of sleep, too drunk to worry about letting the bedbugs bite or the shadows descend and poison him with memories.

In the early evening, he wakes with a start, which he immediately regrets, apologizing to his head wrecked with hangover, and groggily hears a distant sound. It's not from any of the geese.

Kaniss is singing again.

A dirge, or something like it if the lyrics are what they sound. But she's alive, and her voice is sweet and it cuts through him, leaving a warm feeling to spill in behind.

Leave it to an Everdeen to knock him out at the unlikeliest of times.

It's ironic because the girl was once a monster herself, and now she's next door unknowingly singing him to sleep. The claw marks on his slackened face have healed, but they're still there, very faded. It was more the viciously true things she screamed at him that made her an animal in his eyes. A feral, wounded animal.

She was a monster, and then Peeta was.

He still is sometimes, temporarily. No matter how short his lapses or how violent his episodes, the boy's mind has involuntarily been mutated so even he himself doesn't know whether he's a snarling Capitol creature or, well, a pretty damn good kid. Katniss freaked out on Haymitch out of fear of what they would do to Peeta, but neither of them knew the extent of the Capitol's cruelties until they took him…

_They're better now, though, _he believes. They are all healing alongside Panem. That's what Haymitch fought to achieve - a world without monsters - and at least he succeeded that much.

He won't ever thank her but he falls asleep a little sober and a little better.

* * *

five.

He's only been sixteen for a few months and in the arena a couple of days but he knows whatever's hanging off one of the squirrels' choppers is _not_ a dirt clod. The vegetation in the arena matches his waxsticks from school way back when, all sickeningly vivid. Even the damn mud looks aesthetic, artfully slimy or whatever. No, that would be a piece of a fellow tribute's _scalp_.

He hurdles a fallen tree, and a branch catches his pantleg. _Should have tucked that into my boot,_ Haymitch scolds himself on the way down.

The mutant squirrels catch up with him pretty quick. They tear at the back of his body while he swings a dagger blindly, prostrated, trying to keep them away from the front. Haymitch grunts as he chops through random furry beasts.

They shriek _so_ _loud._

He doesn't want to, obviously, but he can die right there on the ground, dragged into eternal sleep amidst their shrill, wretched lullaby.

He isn't sure at what point in that revelation he starts crying, but once he does he finds enough strength stemmed from desperate rage to _survive._

Not soon enough, they're all dead or dying or scampering off for the branches high in the trees. The moss winding around the tree trunks shine like damn emeralds.

Freely bleeding from those things' claws, he limps over to the fallen log, and applies medicine and bandages to his scratches, angrily wiping at his eyes._ Fucking squirrels._

Later that week, he's bent down, tying his bootlace, when a splotch of orange flutters by.

He smiles at the butterfly that lands on his thumb. Its wings match the molten lava that flowed down the mountainside yesterday morning, all stark black and glowing orange. _Well, aren't you pretty._ He twists his hand as it flits over his fingers, where scars from home have mostly healed whereas the ones from the arena are still puckered and sticky. It skitters to his wrist and twitches. Then, "_Fuck!_"_  
_

Writhing, he cries out and manages to find cover from any more of them in his sleeping bag. He has to roll into a thicket so he's not completely vulnerable.

Somehow he's relieved it doesn't smart like a wasp sting yet terrified that it hurts so much worse. He reaches out to retrieve medicine in…

_Damn it._ His backpack is still out there in the clearing. Words cannot describe how annoying and stupid that is. Worse, he might be on national television right now. If a contender comes by, takes it, and kills him, he'll let them.

The butterflies take way too long to flutter off but eventually they do. Once they're gone, he climbs out, hears a twig snap, and turns, dagger at the ready, facing a pack of Careers.

This whole Hunger Games thing is bullshit.

Days later, he wakes up in a little glade before his turn to take watch. The forest is damp and dripping. Maysilee is braiding her hair.

"What?" his ally asks, defensive, almost exasperated, upon seeing the scowl that greets her after a few hours alone.

"Rained a little while I was out." His voice cannot be more condescending. "You have the tarp in your knapsack."

"So?"

He groans, "You were supposed to get more water." His words are muffled halfway through the sentence as he pulls the fold of his sleeping bag up over his face.

"Oh, it's fine." She waves a hand dismissively, then gestures towards the cartons they replenished that afternoon. "That's plenty enough to last through tomorrow."

"You don't know that. What if it doesn't rain?"

"Then we'll stop to rest so we don't waste energy and water," she replies, "like I suggested earlier."

"I hate stopping," he mutters to the perfectly manicured grass.

"Why?" Maysilee asks again for the hundredth time. "Why not stop and just _wait_ instead of walking in one direction?" She glares as he rolls his eyes and ignores her.

When she turns around, with what it seems every intent to leave - to _abandon_ him, he calls out, "Wait!" He winces at the irony, but she does. "There were," he makes a wing gesture with his hands that must look ridiculous to her, "mutts. Before we met up."

"I know that. We were in the same woods." She doesn't understand. She's tactful to have survived this far, the Town girl, so maybe she hasn't been attacked yet. _Doubt those squirrels could've reached her without getting a dart or two in their fur._

"We're in danger of them catching us, standing still." It's not a lie nor his reason for traveling in the same direction. She must know that but doesn't comment any further - for now.

Instead, she tells him to go back to sleep and busies herself by dipping the tips of her blowgun darts in the surrounding poisonous nectar. Somehow he's okay with that. Above them, birds warble one last song before they take to their nests for the night. They're out unnaturally late. Haymitch isn't certain if they are dangerous, but they sound nice. Maysilee hums along and continues once they're gone, replaced by crickets, adding notes of her own. It still sounds pleasant.

Listening to her, warm in his sleeping bag, it's the first time in the arena he's felt remotely safe.

Afterwards, there's a silence that would be comfortable if they weren't here.

He's almost snoring when Maysilee asks, "You want me to kiss you goodnight, too, little baby?"

"In your dreams, sweetheart."

* * *

four.

It's late February, still winter in Twelve, and he feels as cold as the air as he digs snow out from under the fence. Next to him is his game bag, steaming from the fresh meat inside. The snow will keep it chilled until it can be traded. Not much today, just a wild turkey, because the weather's bad and they've got to get home soon before it storms again.

Artie hangs back to collect some pine needles and tree bark, stuffing them into his own bag full of plants. That's how he and Rohan first found Artie Everdeen outside the district, looking malnourished yet comfortable in the surrounding shrubbery whereas they were stumbling over rocks and anxiously flicking ticks off their trousers. He ventured beyond the fence to gather herbs he knew a lot about through family. Haymitch and Rohan figured there weren't many things worse than starving.

So when Haymitch slides out, seeing the people he does not _ever_ want to see as he does so, and stupidly tries to crawl back under only to twist and thrash around as he's roughly swept through again by a pair of gloved hands, Artie is safe and hidden in the forest.

The Peacekeeper who pulled Haymitch out grabs him by his coat buttons and lifts him to his feet. She's tall. All of her teeth are straight. They sneer at him, glistening white like fresh snow.

"That fence is there to keep animals out," he's told as his bag full of illegal turkey is taken from his shaking grasp, "and to keep filth like you in." A spit follows that. He can't reach to wipe it off his cheek since they've locked his hands behind him.

He can look back at Artie and mouth _help_, but he doesn't do that either.

The Head Peacekeeper's office reminds him of the school principal and his frequent visits to her office. Except punishment there pales in comparison to what's coming, no _we're letting you off with a warning_or _I won't be so lenient next time so make sure there is no next time_.

"Apparently I need to enforce district enclosure patrols if you've found a way through the electric barrier," the Head Peacekeeper says, brow and hands folded. Haymitch resists the urge to roll his eyes. That fence has been lapsing since Snow took office and nobody cares enough to repair it. "I'll assume it was the first time by how horribly cut the meat is." The bag slams down on the metal table between them. Haymitch is standing, still handcuffed, so he can't hide behind it but it's not like he would, anyway.

_Well, Rohan's our usual butcher and he's sick, so, _he thinks, face heated with embarrassment. He lies, "Yeah."

"How did you kill it?" For a moment, the man doesn't sound professional and actually kind of chuckles. Bastard.

"It was already dead." _From our snares, _Haymitch finishes inwardly. He shrugs and glances at his wet boots, feigning youthful ignorance. "I saw it outside the fence and plucked it out there so no one could try to take it."

The Head shakes his head and writes something down. "Poaching is stealing property of the Capitol, and stealing is punishable by death." Haymitch remembers Rohan, then - _There aren't many things worse than starving, Mitchie, there just aren't. _"Name?"

He tells him.

"Age?"

He swallows. "Sixteen."

Is that a worried look? "Need your birthday, too, boy." Definitely pity, definitely a bastard.

"The fourth of this month," he answers, even adds, "sir."

The lines in the Head's face are as old as time itself when he frowns down at him.

Soon, his hands are released, only to be tied up high to the whipping post. They had to peel off his coat and shirt first, to which Haymitch mused wryly, _How considerate of them._

The whip whistles. Thankfully, it's not a gunshot but it is not at all a soothing sound, and from this angle, it is unfamiliar. The overwhelming pain that follows threatens to knock him out. He fights the harsh, rhythmic lullaby, fights to _stay awake_ because he really isn't sure what will happen if he doesn't. It's all so terrifying and hurts like hell - like _fire_. As if he doesn't hate burns enough already.

The thing is, the actual weapon is just a strip of leather that would otherwise be harmless if not in the hands of the Head Peacekeeper. Haymitch can endure the whip but he cannot escape what's controlling it.

_Great_, he thinks, gritting his teeth and anticipating the next lash, _guess_ _I become a shitty philosopher when brought to justice_.

He's all too aware of the silence of his audience, despite his writhing and lurching. Shame doesn't nick the surface of how he feels but in the back of his mind he's already decided that, if he survives, he'll hunt again once he heals up.

Then, he hears his mother, and oh, how she screams. She must have left Cory with the neighbors, maybe even Mollie, after someone told her the news that her idiot oldest son got caught.

During the fifth whistle of the switch, Haymitch notices Artie with her on the fringe of the crowd. He looks guilty to be relieved and relieved that he's guilty, not tied up with him. The ninth lash seems to cut harder than the rest, but Haymitch is proven wrong when the tenth comes slicing through. Is he screaming? By the thirteenth, he doesn't remember his own name. The next one, he's so ready to give in and shut his eyes, maybe permanently_. Two more, just two more - _he cries out_ - just one more..._

Sixteen lashes are singed into his back. The air is so brisk they smart.

He's unconscious before he can determine who he hates more, the Capitol or his neighbors that just watched and start to walk away.

* * *

three.

He's fifteen, almost sixteen, and it's late afternoon and Mollie is nestled into the Meadow grass, her skirt fanning out around her propped-up knees.

"Hey," says Mollie, and it's not a greeting because they walked here together. Usually this kind of _hey _was an introduction to the proposal of a scheme.

He grunts in reply, tearing blades of grass from the dirt.

"You're still going to the festival, right?" she asks.

Haymitch looks at her warily. "Yeah."

"Well," she smirks a little and _oh,_ _this'll be good_, "we should do something original for that last song, the real fast one that one fiddler always plays for the grand finale or whatnot." Community festivals are really the only time Haymitch appreciates people, only because they're too busy dancing to speak. All the music comes from a measly ensemble, quick and lively. Towards the end, a single fiddler strikes up a frantic tempo that would end in cacophony if the rest of them played along.

He turns over onto his back like her and searches the clouds for a retort. Clueless yet willing to play along, if this is even a game, he ventures, "Like what?"

She stares straight into the swollen blue sky and scrunches her nose in thought. "Maybe a different dance, some ridiculous Capitol one."

He asks why exactly they'd do that. The grass rustles as she shrugs and he can't help but grin. "Because it'd be hilarious. Nobody would expect it from us." Haymitch rolls his eyes, back onto his stomach. "Duh," Mollie laughs, as if the reason is obvious.

Sighing, he shifts his elbows so he's looking down at her. "So which one are we doing?" He raises his brows.

She sits up. "How about I just show you instead. You're a quick learner, aren't you?" Mollie pulls him up, which is really him reluctantly standing while she tugs at his arms. "Remember, we have to look stupid," she reminds him, to which he rolls his eyes.

Haymitch's hand practically hovers over her waist while Mollie wraps an arm around him, tight. Their other hands tangle for a moment but manage to clasp like the people on television.

They get in about four steps and an awkward dip before Haymitch accidentally stomps on a nest. A kind of enormous one. Once he realizes, it doesn't take very long for Mollie to as well.

"Think we've got the moves for a few laughs if we can piss off an entire colony," he hollers as he sprints across the Meadow. No snide remark calls back. "Mollie?" He slows to a jog, looks around and over his shoulder, causing him to trip over a gnarled root.

Roots - fucking bullshit.

The grass is damp and cool while his skin ignites. Every sharp pang burns horribly and soon the welts the wasps leave behind throb and swell up and they just _hurt_.

"Haymitch!" It's the first time Haymitch has ever heard Mollie so terrified.

It scares the hell out of him.

Her retreating form is veiled by a dark haze as the wasps swarm him. He can't distinguish them individually, which is frightening enough, and although he feels there are hundreds, they become a single assailant.

His mind is muddled and the whole world is buzzing when he feels someone clasp his elbow and lift the veil, so to speak, with speed and a couple sweeps of their arm.

He is a boy on fire by the time his sorry swollen self is dragged out of the Meadow. After a quick self-assessment and a successful deep breath, Haymitch knows he needs the apothecary, not the district doctor, whose treatment he couldn't afford, anyway.**  
**

Scraping out the stingers hurts as much as getting them stuck in. Disoriented, he loses track counting them but Mollie curls all of her fingers once her second thumb juts out. _So, more than ten, _the part of his mind still conscious notes sardonically.

"Are you okay?" His voice sounds bad, all hoarse and garbled.

"Uh, compared to you," she laughs shakily, nonplussed, then stops altogether, probably recognizing how serious the situation is. "I'm okay. Got stung on the back of my thigh, that's all."

He doubts she can see his attempt to nod.

The swelling on his forehead makes seeing difficult so he just keeps his eyes closed. Arms too thick to be Mollie's struggle to support him since the joints are distended. He is certain which adult would be in the Meadow during working hours to come and help them.

Mollie walks alongside the herdsman, muttering assurances to Haymitch and herself. He's exhausted and aching and _is this what it feels like to be poisoned? _so he can't comfort her, even though he wants to.

"My, oh, my," the drover rasps to Mollie. "Make yourself useful and head over to the Moore's. His mother is working there - saw her while I went to buy barley for the goats today. Tell her I'm taking her son to the apothecary's stoop and whether she takes him in is her decision."

Mollie scampers off.

The herdsman coughs a hacking cough, no doubt brought on by black lung. "Heavier than you look, kid." Haymitch coughs himself. He may or may not direct it towards the man's chest, into threadbare cotton. It shakes against him as the man chuckles. "You are your mother's son, that's for sure."

Then, something weird happens. The filthy, musty drover begins to whistle.

It's clear while his voice sure as hell is not.

Haymitch lets the sound permeate his mind, eradicating the pain, and tries to rest as much as he can because it's as good as he's going to get until the sleep syrup and soaked, tepid rags.

* * *

two.

At fourteen years old, he'd never show it, or heck, admit to it, but Haymitch is wary as he approaches the tree. His knife is more of a shield, something between the tree and him, than a weapon.

Rohan and Artie wait, hunched down in the undergrowth with their bows drawn.

Blood drips down the bark, which doesn't help his anxiety unless he remembers it belongs to the prey, not the predator, and that _he_ is the predator, tracking a trail caused by Rohan's shitty aim.

_Seriously, who misses a fat, lazy raccoon?_ Haymitch is still stewing over that as he slinks up to an ominously quiet trunk. The arrowhead grazed its back and suddenly the thing was scampering up a maple like it _wasn't_ a retired masked bandit. In collective retrospect, it should be Artie's quiver missing an arrow but they hadn't seen anything bigger than a squirrel this whole weekend and got a bit stupid, all wound up. Rohan lost his privileges, and since the best way to kill a wounded animal is a near cut and Haymitch is best at the knife... well.

Haymitch peers into the hollow right when a beautiful voice croons, and learns a raccoon paw looks more like a dark, skeletal hand.

Ten minutes or so later, two boys are still trying to staunch the flow of blood gushing from their friend's face while he curses at a dead animal.

Then, finally realizing that they have game that isn't going to respond or fight back anymore, Haymitch shoves Artie's balled-up shirt-yielding hand away from him. "What the _hell_ was that, Everdeen!?"

The boy stutters in response, "I - I was just trying to sing it out into the open for you. Didn't think you'd get distracted..."

"Or fall asleep." Rohan chuckles despite all the blood and Haymitch wants to kill him.

"Shut up! I fucking hate you guys." His nose plugged up with torn denim affects his already nasally accent, causing his friends to stifle sounds in their throats.

Haymitch scowls menacingly at anyone who stares at his bandaged nose for a second too long at the Hob. He still trades with them, though haggling spitefully. They get a lot for the raccoon pelt and two coins are handed to Haymitch along with_ guess you earned this by yourself, Abernathy_ before they divvy the rest of their money between the three of them.

Grudgingly, he invests in some antibiotic herbs from the apothecary.

Rohan Hawthorne teases that the scratch across his nose will look sexy as hell once it scabs over and returns to school on Monday with the ugliest split lip ever.

Truth is, Haymitch doesn't actually know who Artie's idea distracted more, him or the old raccoon. He still managed to stab it dead before it could maul him. Not that he's going to admit that to anyone anytime soon.

* * *

one.

Nine and a half years old and already he's having trouble sleeping.

A day ago, the reason would have been a stomachache or his brother whining that he was hogging the blanket. Now, he'd give _anything_ for Cory to complain if he were to roll away from him, shouldering the hem and taking the quilt with him, or for the rumble of his empty belly to keep him awake. Instead, Haymitch doesn't have the heart to move while his brother's nestled against him and his faint breath tickles Haymitch's neck, and the growls from deep within their hungry stomachs are muffled by the wailing.

Haymitch wants to cry himself, witnessing the moans of a wounded man and not being able to help him. He _knows_ his father isn't a monster but it's _scary_ hearing him like this when he's supposed to grin all toothily and laugh so loud everybody else laughs and curse like a fiend after he nicks himself shaving.

The mines claimed so many lives today, he even saw a few of them before they succumbed to their injuries, and he can't help but think that smoke will billow into the house and take his father as well.

The alarm sounded out over the dull Seam air earlier that evening, disrupting the quiet of poverty. Haymitch's mother had just come home, her shoulders hunched and her knees aching and her feet heavy, and when it first started blaring she patiently set her bag of cleaning supplies on a chair like she always does, which somewhat lessened Haymitch's immediate fear.

At the mine entrance, they crowded up against the rope that kept them back, far enough away to be safe. Almost the entire Seam was there, trying to see through the smoke billowing out from the entrance, searching in vain for their loved ones.

The elevators were screeching, overworked. Miners emerged from underneath the black, swirling column. Haymitch almost choked on the smoke rising from their uniforms, all hot and dry and thick, as they were pulled away from the mine entrance, towards the crowd.

He watched one woman limp towards another next to his brother and fall heavily into her arms. Streaked down her lower back and leg - that was scorched flesh. He could smell the skin burning, hear it sizzling. Haymitch steered Cory to his other side only to push the child behind him as an armless, bloodied man staggered out with the help of a foreman. Haymitch shrunk back at the sight of the other injured victims. He looked to his mother. Her hand was pressed to her mouth while the other gripped his shoulder. It tightened with each surge of colliers. Tears were threatening to spill over her lashes but his mother _never_ cried so that's when he realized how scared he was supposed to be as well.

Most of the colliers were burnt, some limbless, others dropped their headlamps and vomited, all of them were blackened. None of them were Haymitch's father.

Suddenly, his mother gasped and ducked under the rope. She embraced her brother, who was dusty with debris but otherwise unharmed. He said something to her and pointed to where the injured were being treated. She blanched, nodded, and walked back to Haymitch and Cory.

"Haymitch, you need to take your brother home."

Hands on his hips and stubby black brows stitched into a scowl, Haymitch demanded, "Where are you going?" His voice was tremulous.

"To help your father. He made it out but he's badly hurt."

His eyes flickering to the limbless survivors and the pallor of his face prompted her to shake her head, saying, "Not like them, not that bad. Please, sweetheart, head on home. He's going to be okay."

Back home, Haymitch held his sobbing brother while they sat on their parents' mattress. They shouldn't have brought him, except there was no one to watch him when the entire neighborhood was there. Witnessing trauma like that shouldn't be a concern for a young boy like Cory, but neither should hunger.

The sirens had been droning for the past couple hours and stopped so abruptly Haymitch could still hear them reverberating through his ears while a little voice croaked, "Does that mean he's okay?"

"I don't know."

"When is Mother coming back?"

"When Father comes back with her," Haymitch said, needing to believe that himself.

Before he could dwell on the thought that his father could have been _too dead_ to hear the alarm stop, several colliers with sooty, lined faces and callused hands carried the man into the squat house.

Arms that could only be his mother's went around him then. She sniffled before letting go so she could help the other adults set his father on the mattress.

Cory tugged on Haymitch's shirt, then pointed at their father. "Ouch." Following the child's focus, he saw his father's arm was injured. Blood seeped through the bandages.

He flinched, guided Cory behind him. "Is - is he going to be okay?"

Grunting, one of the older colliers replied, "Yeah. Your father's a good man, you know. Saved me from getting something a whole lot worse than this." He gestured to his sweaty neck where a huge blister was forming.

"Ouch," Cory mumbled into the base of Haymitch's back.

"He'll be all right, boys," their mother said softly, taking Cory up on her hip and kissing his small nose. "Why don't you go to bed, hm?"

Now, they're in bed, all right. But in the dim candlelight - Cory is afraid of the dark, and tonight, so is Haymitch - they can easily see the bandages covering their father's entire left arm and shoulder and hear the hisses coming from his mouth. They are both wide awake.

Haymitch looks down at the dark curly head of his little brother, and gray eyes blown wide with fear stare right back up at him, probably mirroring his own. Haymitch holds him close and can feel his own face contort into a grimace. A convulsive sob escapes before he can muffle it in his threadbare pillow.

His little brother says something. Haymitch pulls away. "What?" he whispers.

"Said _I_ _sing_," Cory reiterates, a bit too loud. Then, he does. A hesitant grin stretches Haymitch's cheeks, causing light freckles to crowd together, while Cory lisps strings of letters, then, with assistance, the entire alphabet song, several times. Occasionally Cory interjects what word starts with a certain letter - apparently, Haymitch starts with _w._ Smoke starts with _s_.

They're beginning the song again when Haymitch notices his father's breathing has relaxed in sleep. His mother sighs at the respite and shifts carefully under the covers. Cory sings himself to sleep, trailing off somewhere after _j_.

The mines open a month later. Well enough, Haymitch's father leaves for work and his crew excavates a little too far underground, their canary falls silent, and they don't come back up. Their bodies cannot be retrieved - Haymitch is not certain whether he's relieved or not.

That night, at Haymitch's suggestion - he's been trying _so hard_ not to break down - Cory tries to sing again but ends up crying until their mother gathers them both in her arms in her bed.

* * *

negative one.

He's seven and putting the skillets and pans back into the cabinet when he finally throws one down in anger. Doing so upsets the rest of the them and _can anyone be this darn unlucky?_ and he scrabbles to catch them, too late, the pans clanging to the floor around his bare feet.

"Stupid," he grumbles to himself, clutching his toes. Haymitch had to go inside after the countdown to midnight because it's a school night and _it's too late for a boy your age to be out_ and _make sure you put away the dishes, you hear me?_ so naturally he's irritated at everything right now.

While his foot hasn't bruised yet, his head hurts now. _Must've been from all the noise outside_, he thinks pointedly as he hops on one foot through the house that, to him, is enormous. Pans are stupid. He may or may not wish the older kids get hit with falling - or _flying_, that'd be cool - pans tonight. They're allowed to stay up later.

Next to the table are his father's work boots. Haymitch is bored, curious, and mad so he tries to kick both of them over and of course stubs the same toes in the process. Worse, as his foot connected with the table's leg, he knocked down one of his schoolbooks and a candle, snuffing it out. Dark encloses him a little more but the clangs and laughter nearby assure him that he's not alone.

Haymitch stuffs his feet into the oversized boxes for boots to protect them from any further damage, because really, this is getting ridiculous.

Something's alight beside his parents' bed, he notices, tying the bootlaces into complicated knots. Doesn't scare him. None of the candles could ignite something way over there. Still bored, he investigates, anyway. Hanging on a bedpost are a miner jacket and headlamp. Haymitch reaches out to touch his future, the national emblem stitched into the rough material. It glows in the dark.

There's some drunken ruckus outside and, forgetting his severe foot impairment, Haymitch dives under the covers of his parents' bed wearing his father's gear. He's not scared, no way, he's just waiting.

He waits for his mother to come inside so she can ruffle his hair after removing the headlamp, tickle his feet back into health, and maybe even tuck him in.

Somehow her goodnight kisses and lullabies of twangy mountain airs scare away all the monsters.


End file.
